


Shades of Blue

by SuburbanSun



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Hopeful Ending, Matchmaker Isobel, Mentions of Isobel & Alex friendship, Shopping, Sibling Bonding, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: For Isobel Evans, no shopping trip is complete without an ulterior motive.





	Shades of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few months after season 1, with Max still dead and Michael/Maria already over.

“I still don’t know why you asked me to come with you,” said Michael, surveying the interior of the boutique with a frown. His eyes were bloodshot, and Isobel didn’t know if it was from lack of sleep, an acetone hangover, or something else entirely. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Every option made her ache for her brother just a little bit more. 

She tossed her hair and sighed dismissively. “I told you. I need a dress for the Erickson engagement party I’m planning.”

Michael followed her further into the store, sidestepping a rack of summer blouses and keeping his hands tucked in his pockets. “And you want style advice from _me_?” 

Isobel laughed dryly. “Please.” 

“So…”

“They have men’s clothes here, too, you know,” she said, gesturing toward the back of the store with one hand while pulling a burnt orange sundress off the rack in front of her with the other. She gave it a once-over, held it up to check the color against her skin tone. Then, without sparing him a glance, continued: “Your wardrobe has been a little more shabby, a little less chic these days, so I figured…”

“Yep, there it is.” 

She looked up in time to catch his scowl. “Don’t be such a grouch. I’m trying to do you a favor.” Michael let out a breath through his nose, then opened his mouth to argue, but Isobel held up a hand to stop him before he could speak. “And don’t try to tell me you don’t need any favors. I’m buying a new dress, then I’m buying you at least four new shirts, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“Iz--”

“Ones _without_ any holes in them,” she added, looking pointedly at the snag in the sleeve of the shirt he had on. “And hey, maybe if we’re lucky, we can find a few that button all the way up.” 

Michael glared at her as she turned back to the orange dress (a little _too_ orange, she decided), but once she glanced at him again, she noticed his shirt was gaping open just a tad less obscenely. Maybe it meant he was going to let _her_ be the one to help _him_ for once in his life. 

“Come on. These dresses are kind of last-season anyway, don’t you think?” She looped her arm through his and pulled him toward the back where the men’s clothes were displayed, letting go only once she’d found a shirt to hold up to Michael’s chest. “You don’t wear enough blue.” 

“I’m more of a ‘whatever’s clean’ kinda guy.” 

Isobel wrinkled her nose. “You’re telling me the clothes you’re wearing now are _clean_?” He tilted his head down to sniff at his shoulder, then shrugged. “Gross.” 

“What, are you going to start talking about my undertones next? Am I a winter or a summer, Iz?” His tone was as sarcastic as it could get, but to his credit, he let her manhandle him, pressing buttondowns in various shades of blue against his chest.

“I’d ask where you learned those terms, but I know you used to steal my _CosmoGIRL_ s.” She settled on a light blue shirt with a faint pattern and interrupted him before he could deny it, nudging him toward the dressing room. “Here. Go take off that threadbare mess you call a shirt and put this on. Go.”

“Okay, alright already.” He held up both hands, giving in, and she hooked the blue patterned shirt over one of his thumbs. After a moment of deliberation, she snatched another handful of shirts from the rack and shoved them toward Michael, who took them with a long-suffering look on his face she knew quite well. 

Once he was behind the door of the dressing room stall, Isobel idly spun a display of sunglasses in a circle. 

“Why the urge to dress me up like a Smurf all of a sudden, anyway?” he asked, his voice muffled by layers of cotton and the stall door. 

“What’s wrong with blue?” she called back innocently. 

“Never said anything’s _wrong_ with it.” The hinges of the door squeaked as he opened it, and Isobel turned to see Michael emerge wearing the patterned shirt. He’d even buttoned it nearly to the top, which she took as a tacit apology for his caustic tone earlier. She reached out and smoothed an appraising hand over his shoulder. “Just wondered why everything you picked out for me looks the same.” 

“We’re getting this one,” she said, brushing her hand over the sleeve of the new shirt and then shoving him gently back into the dressing room. “Let’s see the next one.” She waited until she heard the lock on the door slide into place before returning to the sunglasses. “And they do _not_ all look the same, Michael. There are like six different shades of blue in there with you.”

“New favorite color of yours?” 

Isobel paused with her hand on a pair of aviators, debating how to broach the subject. “Not mine.” There was a pause in the rustling of clothing, and she knew he must have noticed the slight emphasis she’d put on the word ‘mine.’ 

“Whose, then?”

She picked up the aviators and slid them onto her face. “Did I tell you I had lunch at the Crashdown with Alex yesterday?” 

Michael was silent for a moment, then swung the door open again. He wore the darkest of the blue shirts and a look of warning on his face. “Knew you two had become acquaintances. Didn’t know that extended to lunch dates.”

“We’re friends,” she corrected, examining the new shirt. She reached up and adjusted the collar on one side. “I think we should get this one, too.” 

“So, what, you spent your lunch asking about each other’s favorite colors? What else, your hopes and dreams, too?” There was a note of tension in his voice, and she let her hand linger on his shoulder, squeezing it in a way she hoped was comforting. 

“Yes, Michael. That’s what friends do.” A muscle in his jaw tightened, and she sighed. “The favorite colors thing came up because I offered to help him decorate that cabin of his. He shouldn’t have to live in a home that feels like someone else’s.” Isobel nodded toward the dressing room. “Now, let’s see the next one.” 

Once he was behind closed doors, neither of them spoke for a long moment. Isobel knew she needed to tread carefully-- Michael was slightly less of a loose cannon than he had been in the weeks immediately following Max’s death, but only slightly. She knew there was a fine line between giving him a push and pushing him away.

“Blue, huh?” he said at last, and she fought a grin. 

“Yeah. You never knew that?”

“We didn’t always do a lot of talking,” he answered, and she wrinkled her nose at the innuendo. He opened the door again, this time wearing a soft, ash blue sweater. “What do you think?” 

Isobel grasped one of his hands and pushed the sleeves up to his elbow, then did the same on his other arm. “I think you look good in blue.” One corner of Michael’s mouth twitched, and she pretended not to notice. “So far, we’re three for three.” 

He retreated back into the dressing room, and she heard him let out a long breath before speaking up again. “Why are you bringing this up, anyway? Thought you thought I should be moving forward.”

“All any of us can do is move forward,” Isobel said after a moment. She knew it as well as any of them did. “But maybe that looks different for different people. Besides, I’ve seen how you’ve been pining.” 

He scoffed. “I do not _pine_ , Iz.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please, Michael. You’re practically a forest.” When he didn’t respond, she wondered if she’d gone too far, but pressed on anyway. “After all that’s happened, don’t you think at least one of us should get to be happy?” The dressing room door hinges squeaked again, and he appeared in the last shirt, a midnight blue. 

“Tried happiness,” he said, his gaze sharp. “Wasn’t my color.” 

Isobel pinned him with a withering stare as she adjusted his cuffs. “No, you’ve tried running away. You’ve tried self-medicating. You’ve tried pretending.” 

“Iz--”

“Michael.” 

He sighed, shoulders slumping. She wished she could will away the pain in his eyes. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Right now, I don’t want you to do anything.” She rubbed his arm, then pushed him back into the dressing room to change back into his own clothes. “Right now, I just want to buy you a few new shirts in nice, soothing shades of blue. Moving forward, remember?” She heard him grunt from the other side of the door. “But if you don’t want them, that’s okay, too. We can find another color you like, or you can just keep wearing your gross, smelly old clothes. If that’s what you really want.” 

Isobel held her breath as the door opened one last time and Michael stepped out, clutching the hangers of the shirts in one hand. “What do you think?” she asked. “Are we getting them?” 

He ran his free hand over his jaw, letting out a harsh breath, then nodded. “We’re getting them.” 

“I knew you’d come around, brother.” She grinned, plucking the hangers from his hand and turning to head for the register. As an afterthought, she grabbed the pair of aviators on her way. Might as well get something out of this shopping trip herself. 

Once she’d paid and they were out on the sidewalk in front of the boutique, she handed Michael the shopping bag and slipped on her new sunglasses. “So, one more thing...”

He let his head fall back with a groan. “What now, Iz? Does Alex have a favorite scent I don’t know about, too? Are you about to drag me into some other store to get a bottle of cologne that smells like fresh cut wood or cedar or something?” 

It wasn’t a terrible idea, but they hadn’t broached the topic of scents over milkshakes. Yet. 

“Of course not. But… I’m having lunch at the Crashdown again tomorrow, and I think you should come.” When he didn’t respond right away, the muscles of his jaw working thoughtfully, she wondered once again if she’d pushed too far. 

“Just you?” he asked finally, though she could tell by the expression on his face that he knew the answer.

“Not just me.” 

Michael turned to look out onto the street, puffing his cheeks out in a long breath. “I’ll think about it,” he said, still idly watching the cars pass by. 

It was enough. Isobel pulled him into a tight hug, kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his curls, murmuring a goodbye as she turned to walk to her car. After a few steps, she glanced back over her shoulder to see him still standing there on the sidewalk, lost in thought. 

“Hey, Michael.” He looked up, eyebrows raised. “12:15 tomorrow. Don’t forget to wear blue.” 

When he walked through the door of the Crashdown the next day, as Isobel had suspected (hoped? No, known) he would, the blue of his shirt shone like the ocean. 

**Author's Note:**

> Want to hang out on Tumblr? I'm unbreakablejemmasimmons over there!


End file.
